


Unconventional

by stearofoam



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Developing Relationship, Introspection, M/M, Minor Character Death, Retold From Other Character's Perspectives, are they yearning? is it pining? mutual-pining? what is love? baby don't hurt me, simultaneously a character(s) study essay and a love story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 10:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25847704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stearofoam/pseuds/stearofoam
Summary: Five times they were thought to be unconventional, and one time they were seen with clarity.(or, how Ethan and Benji’s relationship has always been viewed with special interest by the people closest to them.)
Relationships: Benji Dunn/Ethan Hunt
Comments: 14
Kudos: 79
Collections: Benthan Week 2020





	Unconventional

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place across the three recent movies: Ghost Protocol - Rogue Nation - Fallout.  
> Spoiler warning for what happened in the three movies (including character death!)
> 
> Anyway, happey Benthan week baby <3

**1\. Jane Carter**

After the Hendricks op, everyone involved changed variously. For the IMF, they had lost their Secretary and a capable agent, at the expense of being able to continue with their agenda. For Jane Carter, she had her broken heart along with a new sense of duty and a jaded look onto the future. For William Brandt, the life of a secret agent could never be rid off no matter the guilt one had to carry. For Benjamin Dunn, blood was now on his hands, and there were new wrinkles on the corner of his eyes - deepened, when he smiled.

For Jane, the one who was the least changed was Ethan Hunt.

It was not likely to say that to a man who had gone through so many things. He had lost his wife, thrown in jail for six months, carried the team on his lone shoulders in the darkest time, beaten and bruised -- and even so, after Seattle, he was said to carry on to another solo mission.

Rough, impossible, to a normal human person. It was the norm, to someone like Ethan. At least that was what Jane believed.

Benji did not share this belief with her, however. 

He was still green, still the newest recruit even when he was 6 years older. They had gotten attached to each other partly on IMF’s order, greatly because of the bond they had shared after Budapest. There was no emotional circumstance for a forming friendship better than to both miss their teammate’s death, both unable to grieve as the world was in danger of exploding, and after what’s said and done were still unable to find the proper way to deal, nor talk, with their losses. Benji would later learn that it was a normal way to bond, in the world of agents.

“It’s not-- He’s not a _superhero_ , that guy,” - Benji hiccuped on his third beer, posture swaying - “You’re… you’re too critical on him, Jane.”

They wore their undercover clothes and spent their celebration on the mission’s success in a retro bar in Calgary. Jane nursed her first glass of Ceasar, critical of the exits and clear paths of the place before placing her palm on his back, stabilized him.

“Maybe I am,” - she spoke instead - “Well, humor me, Benji. What should I think of him, then?”

He fumbled with his sentences for a long minute. Then he settled, deflated, the tip of his nose almost dipped in his glass - “Maybe we just didn’t know him. He’s-- he gets things done, Jane, that’s all there is to it. He can push his emotion aside, he can ignore the panic, the-- restless, the… _jitter_ , and there’s no explanation to it! He’s just-- _good_ , at that! At mission-related things. At being _heroic_ and-- and…”

Jane let him rambled on, taking her first sip of the Canadian version of her favorite cocktail while mulling over Benji’s words. Let her mind wandered for a bit. Benji was too friendly for an agent, so she had to learn some rather unprompted facts about Benji’s experience with Ethan: About how they had met, how Benji risked his neck for helping Ethan on that one job in China, how Benji had some sort of contact with Ethan’s deceased wife. And then she thought, how Benji, of all people in that warehouse in Dubai, took the truth about Julia’s death the hardest.

How Benji, of all people in their team, looked at Ethan with eyes too wide, mouth quirked upward and neck always headed up even though he was taller, whenever the super-agent was near.

“Benji,” - She began, her mouth suddenly went dry - “Did you… For him, was it…”

Benji had his smile half-formed on his face. She then saw him looking puzzled, then cautious, then hesitated, then alarmed. She didn’t know what her face looked like (didn’t know it was the same eyes after she had cleaned her tears on Trevor’s cold chest, with her chest burnt with loss and anger).

“No. No, no, no. No, not ever, _no!_ I would not-- Jane, for goodness’s sake, I would _never--_ ”

“I haven’t insinuated,” - Jane added, reaching over the counter for a slice of lemon.

“I admire him! He’s-- Look, can a bloke praise his fellow worker for--” 

Benji kept stuttering, his face getting redder and redder. At the same time, it was getting sadder as well.

“He’s… his _wife_ , Jane. It’s only six months ago. I can’t.”

She felt guilt clogging her throat. Benji made himself smaller, his hands cupped the cold glass of beer like it was his last source for warmth, his caps hid the way he cast his eyes downward as if he was in shame. And that was-- _oh_ , she remembered, how she had been one to insist, to face Trevor’s antsy behavior. She was the one telling him that it was okay to love, it was better to love and lose than to never have. And then, where was she now?

Jane swallowed. 

“Benji, I’m just worried. I didn’t mean it.”

“You don’t have to, really. There’s nothing to it.” - Benji lied.

In their line of work, Jane realized that Benji was exceptionally good at lying. Maybe it was why the IMF took him in - not his marksmanship, his reflex, his technician knowledge, his way of making things easier to think about, his belief that all was still good in this world no matter that their everyday job was to fight and apprehend evil.

Maybe it was why she let Benji lie, let herself believed in that lie too.

(And when Ethan came back from his anonymous mission and greeted Benji with the same calculative casualty, she saw Benji had subtly changed everything just from standing next to him-- 

Jane held onto the belief of a lie again, and closed her eyes for Benji’s sake.)

(It would not work. Maybe Benji had known sooner than she did.)

* * *

**2\. William Brandt**

Being back in the field was as weird as it was comfortable for Will, since it showed he had not lost his craft yet. It was a bit of a confidence boost to be classified as “essential” to the IMF, working both as a field agent and a regular in the control center. The boost was needed, as it was one of his last threads of sanity for dealing with the shitfest they were in after the Hendricks op-- accusations of misconduct, fucking _of-course_ , like the Secretary had his brain blew clean right next to Will’s face was for _nothing_.

Other threads of sanity included the bagel shop on the 4th Road near his apartment and the fact that Ethan Hunt remained one of the strongest allies the IMF had ever have… Although, in his case, was a bit of an unorthodox ally.

At the moment, William Brandt, official Field Operation Director of the IMF, was having his face in both of his palms while the comms were blaring out shouts and arguments from the field to everyone in the control room-- mainly reflecting Benji’s panicked cries, with the occasional jibes from Luther Stickell and non-committed answers from Ethan. The offender, Ethan Hunt, had decided to jump from a flying plan with only a military parachute - which was strapped to a fuckton of nerve gas canisters - in a 1k-drop, no mask, and with dress shoes. Was he _furious?_ Absolutely _gobsmacked?_ Damn right he was.

At least Benji was doing the verbal work for him. Ethan appeared to have sprained his ankles after the jump, which was minuscule to Benji’s concerning long rant about how his heart was going to give out for Ethan someday. Will decided it was time to declare the mission as a success and mute the comms, sparing everyone else from the awkward tension. But maybe he was a masochist at heart because Will kept the ongoing conversation in personal comms-- or maybe, it was rare of Benji to raise his voice over Ethan. Knowing Ethan, this was the least of the stunts he would pull during desperate times. Knowing Benji, this was the most he had seen of the field technician’s usual balmy attitude.

_ “--and what if you’ve died!? What then, am I just going to helplessly look while--” _

_“I am fine, Benji,”_ \- Ethan’s voice was gaining an edge, probably growing weary of calming Benji down - _“You don’t have to look for me.”_

_“I am so glad I can’t, because_ shit.” - Luther injected - _“You know what, you deserve it. Get his ass for me, Benji.”_

_ “Luther.” _

_ “Thank you, thank-- Finally, a voice of common sense! And that’s from Luther, of all people!” _

_ “Wait wait, Woah, what do you mean me of all people--” _

_Children_ , Will thought to himself while munching on his cold bagel, even though he was the youngest compared to the three men. He let the one-sided berating droned on as he filed away the Minsk op and went to check on Luther’s side in Singapore. The man never bothered to do any paperwork, Christ. Did Luther hate him or something? Will was grumbling to himself and on his second cup of Americano when the conversation went into a lull. 

Then, something strange happened.

_ “...I could never look away. Might be the last I’ve seen of you, you know.” _

Benji might not know the comms were still running, with multiple parties connected, because then-- _because_ , the vulnerability in his voice was too much. Too much for an agent, too much for the job they were doing. It got Will thinking, that in Benji’s first field mission, one of his teammates had been killed by Moreau. Benji saved him from Wistrom, and he could never forget the shake in his hands after the shot. 

It was years ago, but maybe wounds healed differently for each different person.

He did not notice Luther’s absence, nor when Ethan’s voice picked up again. It sounded-- strange, slightly, like a faint crack on an iceberg.

_ “I understand.” _

Will exhaled through his nose, decided it was time to speak.

“Ethan, a transport team is going to pick the canisters in fifteen minutes. You should go, then.”

A faint affirmative from Ethan was heard, and that was that. Benji came back with Luther, and Ethan should be in London doing what he was planning on the sideline. Something about a criminal consortium that could prove the CIA wrong of their claims against the IMF. He spared a pitied look and a comforting pat on Benji’s shoulders before leaving, another day head-to-head with the Senate and that damned CIA Director.

The thing was, he knew. He was in the same shoes, looking up to Ethan with the same idolizing eyes. That was why he volunteered in Croatia, why he carried the guilt of failure for the longest of time, why he was so relieved to know the truth, and why he grew from idolizing to fearing Ethan. 

Because Ethan was a man not meant to be loved, to be settled for normality. He was meant to be seen, speculated, trusted, entrusted-- Ethan could never stay for anyone, nor anyone could stay for him in return. 

That was what William Brandt believed.

…

And that was why it boggled his mind when Ethan bought Benji to Vienna, having both of them being hunted by the SAC for treason and terrorism. It threw him off his calculation, being rendered useless as they failed to get to Benji in time, watching Ethan being frantic for the first time Will had seen. He saw Ethan putting himself as the living bait, putting the welfare of a single man above the destructive future an MI6-funded criminal consortium could bring to the world-- because, _because_ , catching Solomon Lane would not be the definite end of the Syndicate, they all knew that.

Yet, what Will did was putting up a farce argument and stood alongside with Ethan to trick both Hunley and Atlee, aiding the plan with bated breath while thinking about the rough future waiting for them ahead.

(Will admitted that he was wrong as the glass cage was fogged up, encased Solomon Lane, and Ethan’s first glance of reassurance was to Benji. Will admitted that he was wrong as he drove the mock police van to the street of London, waited for Benji and Ethan to sit together, to do _something together--_

(But nothing happened. Maybe they had known, they were unconventional. They would never work.)

(Will could not say it would be for the best, or not.)

* * *

**3\. Alan Hunley**

For all the time Alan had spent villainizing Ethan Hunt, it was… embarrassing to face him in the most bizarre situation: With Atlee exposed for backing up the so-called Syndicate, with the Prime Minister of England high as a kite and strapped to a chair, with Ethan staged all of this just to give Alan the credit for uncovering the truth. Maybe it was why he quitted the CIA and turned to the IMF; a repayment, his sheepish way to apologize.

The first week was… bizarre. It was weird to work with an organization that he had tried his best to disband for six entire months, being baffled at how unorthodox their working pattern was-- yet, it was strangely exhilarating at the same time. The sensation he felt in Oxford never left, only ten-fold as he became the Secretary of the IMF.

… _So-called, Secretary of the IMF_. In reality, Alan felt more of a recruit than the boss of these people. He had to re-learn so many things, and he was already well into his sixties.

One of which, was to re-learn how to converse with one Benjamin Dunn. It was justified, yet puzzling, how they jumped from an interrogator-interrogatee relationship to a boss-and-employee dynamic. Alan did not think he had to apologize - he was doing his work, as Dunn was following his own agenda. But then, Alan cared about morale, and morale was what the IMF needed: As Syndicate was disbanded but never gone, IMF and CIA were now on a tense companionship in which they were both after the remaining Syndicate, with none of the party fully trusted each other.

Dunn was a polite man. True to his British heritage, he was an expert at tea talk, speaking lots yet never revealing much. He was in his cubicle in the Tech Division when Alan arrived, already donned headphones, facing three screens that were running those shooting games Alan’s son was obsessed with. He looked bored instead, even when his aim was impeccable as far as Alan could judge.

He called Dunn three times, with no answer from the English man. Alright. He walked to Dunn’s back and circled his hand on Dunn’s left wrist.

“Dunn, can we talk for a sec--”

Maybe he was wrong on that, but in honesty, he did _not_ know. He felt first, then saw how violent Dunn thrashed around, went from an assuming man to a desperate person throwing everything he could for his survival. In a matter of two seconds, Alan’s hand twisted and faced the armrest in the wrong angle, and all Alan could think was between the two, Dunn looked much more hurt than he was.

The techs around definitely saw what happened. Dunn’s palm shook atop of Alan’s bent hand.

“Mister Secretary, can we help you?”

Ethan Hunt appeared out of nowhere with two fresh cups of tea in his hands. The calmness in Hunt’s eyes was too deliberate, as was in his voice too.

“I was,” - Alan began - “Trying to have a word with Dunn right here--”

“No, it’s all my fault. I got jumpy. It’s-- nothing, really.” - Dunn followed up, his voice as nonchalant as the days of interrogation were still going on - “Aw, got me something there, buddy?”

“We only have Earl Grey down the cafeteria.”

“Ah, that’ll do. Thank you.”

Dunn released his grip, then cupped his hands around the warm mug and took a sip. Hunt never seemed to leave his gaze on Alan.

“You never like Earl Grey, Benji.” 

“Gosh, you remember that?” - Dunn’s voice picked up a tint of embarrassment, and Ethan grinned in reply - “It’s, what, years after now? The American miracle, really, cured me of my childhood phobia. Benji the tea snob? Gone, he’s gone, god bless the President.”

“Then you have no trouble finishing it, right?”

Alan was having an _aneurysm_ , broken hand be damned. Hunt was _teasing_ Dunn, _actually_ casually _teasing_ the other man. He was-- Alan looked around and saw the numbers of techs remained in the room were… no one. 

He counted ten were working when he had entered the room. Where were they?

Alan quietly excused himself outside, which was met with little struggle. His aneurysm subsided, but his curiosity grew larger. It was embarrassing but here he was, hiding near the sliding door, making his body as small as possible to see what was going on. 

And what was going on, was this:

Hunt and Dunn were still talking, completely facing each other, their voices never made clear, and their volumes dropped minutes by minutes. Hunt had a weird crinkle to his eyes, often deepened as a response to something Dunn said; it was not a weary look however, it was the complete opposite. 

Alan realized it was Hunt being happy, relaxed. Maybe, even…

Hunt suddenly got quiet, trained his eyes a little too intently on Dunn’s wrist. His eyes never left the spot as his hands traveled to Dunn’s elbow, a slight tap signaled some sort of message to the other man. 

Dun took a moment to shake his head. He was looking restless and antsy, but never swatted nor pushed the other man away. And it was-- _tense_ , the atmosphere between them. Like they were having so many things unsaid between them, but they would rather keep this tug-and-pull than to address whatever was going on.

It felt intrusive to keep peeping, so Alan backed away. 

On his way back to the office, the previous scene got him thinking. It was about the old time, when he was still completely convinced that Hunt was an adversary and the IMF was a force too dangerous for the world. 

When the news about Benjamin Dunn’s disappearance lined up with the death of an Austrian Chancellor, Alan was in rather hefty distress over the matter (so maybe, the capture-and-kill sentence on Hunt and Dunn’s heads were unjustified) because he could not understand Hunt. He could not understand how that man had gone under the radar for six months, yet caved and robbed a colleague of his safety for a dangerous plan that could cost them their lives. What had been more puzzling was how there were people loyal to him through thick and thin, who did not care that Hunt was deliberately hiding things from them, who would spring into action just because they trusted Hunt that much. It was not just Dunn; Brandt, Stickell, and later on… Alan Hunley himself, too.

Maybe it was part of Hunt’s charm. Maybe it was because the trust was mutual, and they both knew it.

Alan shook his head, rid of the notion that Hunt and Dunn were in that kind of relationship. Maybe it was just a platonic bond - a bond between an agent who would lie continuously for six months and not hesitate to jump into danger to protect his friend, and another who would kidnap a PM and bargain 500,000$ for his friend’s safety. 

He kept that thought, that belief, even when he came into his office and received a request from none other than Ethan Hunt, who requested that Benjamin Dunn would be excused from his confidential mission in Liverpool to attend a three-month course of therapy, furthermore addressed that Hunt could do the work for Dunn as well. 

It was… No, it was unthought of. It was unconventional. 

Alan signed the form with approval, however.

…

(As he bled on the underground of London, he chanced a look at both Dunn and Hunt’s faces for the last time. He might have smiled a little, knowing that his death would not be in vain. They could stop Walker. Erika would see that she was wrong.

It was a pity. He wanted to live, just a little longer… Just to be proven wrong. Just to see that no matter the circumstances, no matter the adversaries they had to face…

Hunt and Dunn, at the very end, could be--)

* * *

**4\. Ilsa Faust**

When Ethan bargained for Benji’s life in that open-park cafe, he unknowingly tried to save Ilsa as well. Or maybe he knew it, tried to save two birds with one stone. 

It was how Ethan Hunt was.

It was why Ilsa extended a hand and waited for Ethan to catch it, even though she knew there was a chance he would say no. This world had hurt them too much. A man like Ethan - a man who was this kind, this understanding, this compassionate even when being chased, wronged - would only suffer if he remained an agent. Her invitation was a rare moment she was allowed to show her humanity, to save an innocent life.

But maybe it was wrong to compare Ethan to a candle. Candlelight was finicky, bound to be diffused. A human was more than that-- Ethan proved her wrong, again and again, and Ilsa had never felt more right when using her hands to aim the gun, using her feet to go alongside a plan, using her mind to protect this one thing she felt so right after so long. She hugged him, after everything, unable to say thank you, but she knew that he did not need it. They understood each other. They attracted each other.

But not in that way.

She prided herself of having a good head on her shoulders. When Luther Stickell sat her down and explained to her about Ethan as a person, she knew of his intention. She knew, yet listened, so she could understand how Stickell could place his faith in Ethan; would it be the same as hers, would he understand her way of thinking, her form of loyalty. 

She agreed to stay, partly because she was tired of running, mainly because she wanted to do something _right_. Hunting Lane was not important anymore.

So maybe they were well into a suicide mission. To diffuse the bomb, they had to place complete trust in each other - to trust that one would get the detonator from Walker and Lane in time, to trust the other would find the two bombs and defuse it at the same moment. And it’s... She squirmed in her seat, the idea of “trust” and “entrust your life to others” was still foreign to her. Ilsa realized she was having second thoughts, she thought about running again--

“You’ll figure it out. I know you will.”

To outsiders, it might be something to say to dismiss another, especially if that another was as chatty and easily-nervous as Benji. But Ethan was not someone like that, not someone who would throw the word around like it meant nothing. He was saying that to Benji, loud enough for all inside the car could hear.

Ilsa did not want to run anymore. She wanted to stay, to be trusted. To trust, in return.

…

When Benji’s voice was heard outside of the shack, she knew that it was not about her. Solomon Lane never wanted her to suffer, not in a way she had expected; no, no it was _worse_ , because from the start… Lane picked Benji. He wanted her and Ethan to suffer, but he wanted Benji _dead_. 

She realized too late that the noose was designed to face her, to let her watch. 

The fight between her and Lane was purely personal. She felt Lane going limp slowly, much slower than she wanted him to be, as she heard Benji’s breath going weaker and weaker behind her. The strength she put in her grip lacked finesse, less calculative, more desperate to finish Lane for good. Ten more seconds, she needed ten more seconds, then she could be safe; Ethan could be safe, Benji could be--

Ilsa then heard nothing else from Benji.

Fear. For the first time since ever, she felt fear for someone else.

Seven seconds was all it took for Ilsa to let go and grabbed the shard to cut Benji down. And she should know that Benji would live - he was likely to get some nasty bruises on his neck, it would take quite some time to heal - but he would live on. She should know that.

Benji tied Lane up with shaking hands and grounded posture, and they were both alive. 

Strangely, that did not sit weird with her, not at all.

…

Ilsa felt her legs given out as the bombs were tampered, with no light or crack emerging from the two uranium cores. The first one to faint instead was Benji.

He woke up as Ethan was finally found, in critical condition yet still alive. The man had the most relieved look on his face even though his own neck was close to snapping, with bruised still raw and red on his skin. She wanted to ask how Benji did it-- how he could hold himself up after everything that had happened, still being able to show _that much_ vulnerability without being jaded, being fearful, or running away. She wanted to ask, did he know why Lane targeted him in the first place.

But instead, she covered for Benji’s limp when they headed to the medical tent, angling her body to shield the worst of wounds on Benji’s body away from Ethan’s eyes.

It was a shame. Ethan’s hands were warm, something she was unconsciously seeking; she angled her head into his palm, her way of reassurance because the bruises on her own neck were not that severe. And to outsiders’ eyes, they would focus on her, as if she and Ethan were a blossom in a desert.

But to those with a good head on their shoulders, who could take their time to look for little details instead of looking at a big picture… They could never miss the way Ethan’s shoulders deflated as he took in Benji, or how Benji tightly smiled in response. They could never get over how Ethan’s eyes lingered on Benji the longest, even when he was surrounded by the people he loved the best. They could see that he loved his ex-wife, loved Ilsa, Luther… 

And Ethan’s eyes would always wander until his sight sought out Benji, and contently stayed. 

_ As if he was home. _

(She allowed herself to stay for a few days before returning to London. Her charges were forgiven by the MI6, she was finally a free citizen. She could do anything she wanted in the bound of law. 

So she chose to stay with the people she trusted the most, then got bored and stealing the jeep for a road trip along the Nubra River.)

(Ilsa did not believe in love, in romance. She still thought it was unconventional, something that could only be dreamt up by the naiveté. She thought that Ethan and Benji would know better, stay in their bounds, let feelings ran dry, let it pass.)

(But if there was a miracle… then she would wish for them to be together, just to prove her wrong. She would be glad to be wrong about it.)

* * *

**5\. Julia Meade**

Julia always hated to see Ethan tear up. It was something of an old belief being reinforced by her experience as a nurse; the worst patient to tend to was not the loud-mouthed, the privileged, nor the deformed, but it was the silent criers. Those that forgone the basic instinct of human nature when in pain, were those that were _hurt_ the most.

She was exactly where she should be, and so was him. She would never mind telling that to him, over and over, whenever they met again.

Ethan’s team was allowed to stay in Kashmir for a couple more days, per requested by the IMF, and accepted by the CIA. Ethan needed up to a week to heal the worst of his broken ribs, while Benji needed three to five days to stabilize. She chose not to tell her husband about what had gone down, at least not right then. If Erik had any questions about the nature of Ethan’s “business trip” (especially with the sudden appearances of the American and British governments, on helicopters), he had done a good job of staying silent for the time being.

Their jobs would be coming to an end soon, as the smallpox situation in Kashmir got deliberately better with more sides involved in fundings and management. Julia spent her free time catching up to Ethan, telling him stories of her and Erik’s medical adventures; in return, Luther and Ethan told her stories from their own missions, ones that were genuinely funny (to Luther) or really embarrassing (to Ethan). 

Sometimes Benji dropped by, still taken aback by Julia’s presence. His throat was bandaged, still too tender to speak. Erik promised to take extra care of Benji’s wounds in her stead.

Three days after and well into the evening, as Julia was changing Ethan’s bandages, he suddenly asked:

“How do you know... that Erik’s the one?”

Her hands continued with fluidity, unwrapped his bandages and applied ointment like it was something she was born to do. Just like Ethan, with his job of saving the world.

“He’s kind. His jokes are a little dark at times but got me laughing. He cares a lot, and he’s not afraid to show it.” - She answered - “Not just like a doctor to his patients, but as a person to other living people. He can be stubborn at times, just like you, Ethan.”

“He doesn’t look like…” - He mumbled, circled his left fingers around with a coy smile on his face.

Julia rolled her eyes. “No, I’m not saying he’s similar to you. Erik _hates_ cardio and spy movies, and detests kale salad.” - She teased back, just to see Ethan’s smile widened - “He’s also more easily persuaded, ten times.”

She tied the knot on Ethan’s bandaged shoulder, right when she heard a soft exhale from him. Ethan got his thinking face on, the kind of expression that made people thought he was closed off, thought the conversation would die right then. 

But to Julia, it was a sign that whatever Ethan was going to say next, it would be important.

“Was it easier, to not be…” - His voice dropped, cut off mid-sentence. And immediately, she knew what would follow next.

“It was never easy, Ethan. And it was never easy for you too, I should have realized it sooner.” - She softly answered, folded his bruised knuckles into her hands - “But I do not lie about being happy for being with you, during, and after you. I’m _happy_ for a chance to be with you, and a chance to be _alongside_ you.”

The heartbroken look on Ethan’s face did not subside. He cast his glance to a side, hesitated for a second.

“It’s what I choose for us. And you accept it... readier than I could ever _be_.” - Ethan’s voice wavered - “I accept it, the reality of this life. But sometimes…”

“... You want to ask if you deserve more.” - she finished the sentences for him.

Julia should have seen that coming when Ethan asked her about Erik. And she should know when she recognized a new face in his team, a woman with eyes too alike to Ethan’s own, who was a bit too guarded and lonely. She should know when she had tapped her shoulders, a blessing from her to the people her ex-husband had trusted, valued, even loved. 

She should have known as she followed his gaze to the other side of the room, reading his mood and sensing it shifted whenever that one person would come in and stay, for Ethan.

“You do. Ethan, God, you _do_.” - Julia squeezed his hand - “He’s there for you. You won’t lose him.”

“That’s because I hadn’t let him know.”

“Ethan…”

“It’s him, Julia. He’s my chance. I have known for a while.” - He continued somberly, an ache in his voice that she could not heal away, not then - “You’d suffered for me, for being with me. He’s-- he is not, but he _still_ had because people knew he’s important to me. I’ve tried to, _to_ _push_ _him_ _away_. But…”

But Ethan would not do that, because that was not something Ethan would do. Because that was his character. That was what Julia had fallen in love with.

And because of that, Julia was torn between keeping silence or outright telling him of what she had known: She knew that Benji felt the same, in the way he begged her not letting Ethan know too much of his wounds. It was not life-threatening, but they both knew how Ethan would react when he knew of the extend that Solomon Lane person had inflicted on Benji. 

It was not just that - she had known for a long time, even before they parted ways in Croatia. She knew in the way Benji had matured, yet still looked at Ethan as if he hung the moon and the stars. She knew in the way Ethan had acted, only truly allowed himself to open up to a very selected few. The list had only been Luther and her, to Julia knowledge - and then came Benji, with his undying loyalty, charming and shy smile, with his good heart and courage rare among the men she had the pleasure of meeting.

It was sad, to see both sides wanted each other so much, yet unable to say anything. Julia wanted to cross the tent and asked Benji herself, but his throat was not healed up yet. 

So the only comfort she could give Ethan then, was her belief and her well-meaning wishes to his future.

“He trusts you. You both know each other.” - she gave his hand a last squeeze, then slowly letting go - “So, trust him back. Let _yourself_ be happy, too.”

(They parted ways a week later, Ethan on his wheelchair and Benji still had gauze on his neck. She stood alongside Erik and watched the helicopter until it disappeared into the sunset, hoping that they would meet again, in a more peaceful and conventional circumstance.)

(She didn’t know much about the world of agents, but she believed in Ethan nonetheless, in that he could overcome anything. She hoped that Ethan could give himself the proper time to heal, to think, and to be ready to love again as she had done after their unconventional divorce. And maybe nothing about Ethan was unconventional - from his way to sacrifice, to protect, to his way of love--

Even so, it changed nothing in her belief. She wished on, unabashedly, for a chance he would take on, eventually.)

* * *

**+1. Luther Stickell**

Everyone lost their marbles when they found out Luther Stickell was happily married for 5 years, a proud dad of twins, and had a German Shepard that won Dog Photography of the Year in 2016. 

Well, everyone except Ethan - who was the twins’ godfather. And the “everyone” was pointed at Benji and Brandt, with Brandt’s face being the equivalent of uncooked beef jerky after seeing the set of pictures of his award-winning Gunther. An invitation to the Stickell’s annual Christmas Party got him less moody (of course, after another promise that Brandt could pet his dog if he brought presents for his kids).

Luther always rebelled out of the mold the IMF had expected him to fit in. He could drop the organization at the bat on an eye, yet could risk his life to go through Hell for one Ethan Hunt. He never followed protocol, and that was how he got himself a family, a house, the security he developed himself, and a daily routine of wiping out public information to protect the anonymity of his family. He was proud of that decision, to settle down and enjoy happiness he damn well deserved. 

He wished Ethan could have more faith in himself. His long time friend was almost sixty - the age where people could sit down and think of retirement while sun-bathing on a front porch, simply enjoying a quiet Sunday morning with their family. Ethan did not look, nor act, a day over forty. At which point, Luther was sure it was a curse than a blessing.

He did not want to be desperate, but… he wanted Ethan to settle down. A small part was because of how sometimes Ethan carried this sad look, whenever he visited Luther’s house.

A large part was how he was sick and tired of Ethan and Benji’s _constant_ _flirting_.

The worst part was, they were not even casual, nor even being dumb and obnoxious about it. No no, those bastards were subtle, _too_ _subtle_. It was the blink-and-you-miss-it kind of flirting; the kind you could easily miss out and be the none wiser... But when you did, it stuck with you. 

And when you had to spend a lot more time being around them than the average people, it stuck with Luther like glue. Hot glue.

So maybe, the Christmas Party was a cliche attempt. It might not work. The rum and brandy he had stockpiled for this occasion might be wasted… 

But damn it, if he didn’t try now, then when?

Luther’s house was situated in a quaint district in North Carolina, decorated to blend in with the locals. Green shrubs and old-timey fences hugged the small yard in front of their two-story house, where the kids were playing with Christmas decorations when their favorite godfather arrived. 

Ethan brought him whiskey and a set of mittens for all members of his family, the sentimental fool. Then it was Ethan who took over the decoration as Misha and Mira ran to the kitchen to wait for their gingerbreads, his wife yelling at them to behave. 

It was well into an hour later that the rest of the guests arrived. The guests were all IMF employees, but more specifically, those he trusted enough to let them pass his security. He invited Carter and Zhen Lei to accompany his wife, while the boys would be well into drinking rum and breaking the pool table if he had his ways. 

He rolled his eyes as Benji passed him a postcard - With love, Ilsa, from the Bahamas - and a small present with her name on it. Luther hoped that it was not leather clothes, or worst -- guns. 

“Ethan-- What?!” - He heard Benji’s laughter somewhere near the front shrubs, joyous as his throat had healed nicely - “That’s not how you decorated those!”

“But they were lining up in a straight line…” - Ethan replied, sounded truly lost.

“That’s the thing! It’s too-- you have to add a bit of flair to it, Ethan! Pour your characters into it! Neat lines are not-- okay scoot over, move, shoo! Give me those ends--”

Knowing Ethan, he might have tried to line the fairy lights in symmetrical order, again. He chanced a peek while pretending to roast the already-cooked turkey on the BBQ, seeing Benji basically plastered himself next to Ethan. They looked like two young men trying to figure out the contraption that was the knots and ways of fairy lights, rather than two middle-aged men who were fluent in different things, who could uncover and decode complicated machinery that got in the way of their missions. 

He did not miss the way - subtle, _again_ \- Ethan tried to fold himself as close to Benji’s chest as possible, probably seeking for warmth as he was easily subdued against the cold.

Christmas Party with the Stickell was not a flashy event, unlike those charity-as-cover-for-trafficking events or the rare celebrations the IMF threw at their whims. There was no firework, no traffic, no pollutants, no blaring street lights which lit 24/7; there were only people bonding over an electronic heater, with their plates of turkey and pieces of gingerbread “evenly distributed” by the twins, bellies warmed by cups of eggnog that have a bit too much rum in it. It was quiet, homey, and secure. It was Luther’s own piece of heaven, shared with those he felt the most comfortable with.

And this month, it would get even better. 

Because Luther got a plan.

…

Ethan and Benji met each other in the middle of the living room, just like how Luther had planned. The plan was: He would ask Ethan to retrieve “something” from the front yard (his daughters, just as smart as their mother, left a couple of toys on the grass before running inside), while his dear wife would ask Benji to help her bring the freshly baked cookies to the guests outside. They would meet in the living room, where it would be strangely evacuated, with all bystanders willingly going along with Luther’s plan-- and currently, they amused themselves by watching Brandt’s exasperated attempts at befriending Gunther. 

His daughters hid alongside him, in the study. He trusted Carter to tap a mistletoe on the ceiling of the living room, specifically told her to pick a spot they would never notice at first glance. He could not see it yet, but if he saw the way Benji and Ethan froze while staring at each other, then they might have seen it better than he did.

“Dad! Dad, look!” - Mira breathed out, poking his arms.

“Not now sweet-heart.” - He shushed her, eyes still trained on the pair like it was his mission - “Daddy’s gonna win 30$ today.”

In front of Luther, Benji gripped the plate of cinnamon cookies for dear life, while Ethan fumbled lightly with the dolls in his hands. Benji was the only one to look up, his eyes strangely guarded, while Ethan did not seem to mind staying in that one position if it meant he got to stand with Benji forever. No, Luther did not want ‘ _forever_ ’! He wanted ‘ _now_ ’.

“It’s tradition, I guess.”

Ethan spoke first, of course being the first person to care about rules and traditions and what else. Benji gave him a tight-lip smile in return, already inching closer while Ethan bent down to put the dolls on the ground. 

The twins hid their giggles as they covered their eyes on their dad’s command, while their dad gave a rather harsh fist bump to the air. He won that bet, _fuck_ _Brassel_ , he won! Granted he had to take Brandt and Carter for Arby’s since he won, but Luther did not care, no, not in the _least_! He won, he was _free_ , he was _finally_ \--

Ethan and Benji parted a bit too soon. Their mouths were slightly open, but none seemed to be chasing the other for a make-out session like how Luther had imagined. Ethan moved his hand from Benji’s nape to graze the tips of his fingers against Benji’s right ear, then let go. Then, that was that.

“Want some cookies?” - Benji raised his plate, looked the same as he has been a couple of minutes ago.

“I’ll get them later, tell Brandt to keep his hands off the plate before I come back.” - Ethan picked up the dolls again, as nonchalant as he had always been - “Have you seen the twins?”

“No, not right then. Check with Clara in the kitchen, perhaps?”

That was-- that was that. They parted ways, nothing else was happening. 

The twins erupted into giggles and ran back to their room through the pathway connected the study with the second hallway. Luther sat on the ground, with his head in his hands, feeling betrayed by Ethan Hunt for the first time _ever_.

It was when he thought he reached the point of no return that Luther decided to look up, to see that the spot above Benji and Ethan’s place was… 

Blank. It was blank. 

There was no mistletoe there. In fact, the mistletoe was not even close to their place. It was near the heater, a few steps adjacent from the bookshelf, and a good half a mile away from their original spot. That was Carter’s idea of an “unassuming place”.

Luther felt his forehead twitched. He backtracked, back to the days of finding them in a wrecked car in Morocco after a chase, up to the previous moment they had with each other. They kissed, unprompted, making excuses the other would catch up with no difficulty. They moved around each other, danced around each other with their own brand of subtlety, but none was being confused by another.

The micro-actions. The blink-and-you-miss-it hints. They were both agents who were damn great at their jobs.

Luther heard Ethan’s voice down the second hallway, his sharp laughter mingled nicely with the cheers from the twins, and Luther then realized he did not look as lonely and sad as other previous occasions. He could not contain his own exhale, gasping with glee laced with frustration - for missing the hints, for being played. 

Damn it, they might have known he was behind that and decided to put on a show.

He had no idea how those mad lads had done it. He did not know when they had been together, for how long… But Luther did not mind losing this one. Sure he would give shits to them both in the future, but then? He was glad. He was _happy_ , for Ethan had finally been able to cross the impossible to do the unimaginable, once again. 

… And maybe, he could win more than 30$. No one saw, no one knew.

(‘Unconventional’ had never crossed Luther’s mind when it came to the relationship between Ethan and Benji. It may have been viewed as ‘unlikely’, or ‘not at the right time’ -- but, it was never against anything, for him. 

The more he thought about it, the more right it sounded.)

...

(What Luther did not know was the answer, glaringly obvious in his hearing sight, in Berlin. It was Ethan, who teased and smiled and dragged Luther in to lightly tease Benji a bit while waiting for the European gangster, who then paused for a minuscule second before staring into Benji’s face, saying the words Luther had not known the implication and importance of those, yet.

_“I won’t let anything happen to you.”_ \- Ethan had said, not just to Benji. He had said those words to the ghost of 96s, to the failures he had to leave behind in order to continue forward. 

Luther did not know, it was an unconventional way to voice his love, to start loving again. 

And it worked.)


End file.
